


Twin Sized Bed

by cumberperson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hate, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Suicide, cries, sherlock is kind of just mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberperson/pseuds/cumberperson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't handle a world without Sherlock for much longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twin Sized Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Roughly based on "Twin Sized Bed" by Death Cab For Cutie, but not really. That song belongs to its writer, and I don't own Sherlock/BBC. Nope.

John woke to the sound of the curtains being drawn, the metal rungs grinding against the curtain rod and emitting an incredibly unpleasant sound. He cringed and pulled his sheets over his head. As much as he wished that the person letting light into the room was his late friend, Sherlock, he knew better than to get his hopes up. Mrs. Hudson had been doing it every morning, trying to create some sort of ritual to help him get over the loss of his roommate.

John groaned when Mrs. Hudson shook him. “It’s a Sunday morning, Mrs. Hudson-”

“It’s a morning like every other, and it’s high time you start going to work like every other doctor in London.” she answered sternly. “Besides, your leave ends today and- MR. WATSON!”

He had pulled the blankets off to reveal a lower half covered only by his pair of briefs. John apologised half-heartedly before pulling the blankets back up. “Do you think they’ll notice if I’m gone another day?”

“Let’s not take any more risks, shall we?” Mrs. Hudson said bitterly before leaving the bedroom that John had once shared with Sherlock.

A lot had changed in the two weeks since Sherlock had thrown himself off the roof of a six-story building. John had traded the queen sized bed he had - rather reluctantly - shared with his flatmate for a twin. It had hurt him far too much to roll over and see nothing but a made-up side and an untouched pillow.

He had gone to the extent of moving all of Sherlock’s things upstairs so that he wouldn’t have to look at them, and so that he wouldn’t have to lose them. Some evenings he would go upstairs and rearrange all of the things Sherlock had left behind, wondering which items were the most valuable to his friend, only to become a big crying mess and embarrass himself in front of no one.

He took a deep breath as he dragged himself out of bed and into his work clothes. He looked out the window to see the streets frozen over and frowned. There was no way in hell that he would get to work in this kind of weather.

Perhaps he could entertain himself by looking at some of Sherlock’s things.

He left the bedroom and went up the stairs slowly, giving himself plenty of time to change his mind. He didn’t, though. Not at all.

He looked around the room, where he had piled Sherlock’s clothes and various doodads up. John sat down on a footlocker that was filled with nothing but novels written on the subject of taxidermy and a few reviews written on the different methods.

John thought about that for a moment- killing something and scooping out its insides before replacing them with something empty and inanimate. The animal would become nothing but a shell forced into becoming an exhibition of what once was.

He felt sympathy for those animals. He often felt just like that.

John took a deep breath before moving toward all of the clothes. Inside that pile, John had placed Sherlock’s gun. He had slept with the firearm under his pillow for a few nights before realising how incredibly uncomfortable it was and deciding to put it away.

He sifted through the tailored fabrics before finding the gun, the metal cold and harsh on his hand. He wondered if the gun was one of Sherlock’s most valued possessions. He doubted it, as Sherlock was never a truly violent man.

John knew he would never find out what Sherlock’s most valued possession was, not really. Perhaps that was what had driven him to live all along- finding out the many secrets left behind by his friend.

He had to accept that Sherlock was dead, and that the secrets had died with him.

John flicked the safety off of the gun and checked the barrel. It was fully loaded.

There was no roulette, no chances or second guessing- no cold feet when it came to guns. Perhaps that was something good for Watson, whose past few months had been little more than a game with Sherlock making up the rules.

John put the gun to his own head, taking deep breaths. His hand did not shake, and his breathing was even.

He pulled the trigger far too soon for someone to stop him before collapsing on the floor.

Doctor John Watson, Sherlock Holmes’s most prized possession, lie surrounded by Sherlock’s easily replaceable clothes and items and the irreplaceable remnants of what could have been.

What should have been.


End file.
